Your Brother's Premonition

That last week,I don't think Dan knew it exactly,but more a darkhovering, subtle as the scent of soilor the tiny tap of an invisible imp crouchedon his shoulderas he drove his pickup betweenconstruction sites, jumpedinto a sewer trench, grabbed the shovelfrom a worker digging carefully around a main,shouted "Damn it, let's get this job done," and brokethe pipe in two, or called you—first time ever—long distance on his cell phonefor no particular reason, or whenhe changed his mind in the parking lotof the Knotty Pine, turned, went back in,walked up to the bar and downedone more shotbefore he headed into the Novembernight, gunned the truckto 80, and just as he hit the curve,skidded, where, this morning, tire tracks showhow the truck veered wildly one way,then the other, before it dove off the pavement,your brother flying clear throughthe open window,so that when his body was found,there was only a broken neck, everything else—his freckled face—unharmed,pressed into the soft, fall-plowed field.